“We should be arm in arm. Otherwise, some drunk will get the wrong idea, and start hitting on you,” he suggested.
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
He gave her a look that said please, do it my way, just this once. Her eyes narrowed, and he braced himself for a tongue-lashing. The moment passed, and she slipped her arm through his, pressing her body against him.
“Lead the way,” she said.
“I’ll need to buy you a drink once we’re inside. What’s your pleasure?”
“Glass of chardonnay. Something from California, if they have it.”
He realized she was making a joke. She didn’t do that enough, and it caught him by surprise. Her eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Jack and coke,” she said. “Now, let’s bust this asshole.”
The club was jumping, the dancers performing naked gymnastics on an elevated stage to the accompaniment of rap music. The patrons were throwing money on the stage, wanting to see the girls bend over. It was a mean crowd.
He went to the bar and yelled out his order. As a cop, he’d dealt with strippers, and had discovered that most of them were financially burdened single moms trying to make ends meet. They didn’t like the work, but it paid the bills.
Two drinks set him back twenty bucks. Beth had found a booth, and he slipped in. They drank and watched a few dances. Knowing that one of her team had been made had turned them both cautious, and they didn’t want to arouse suspicion.
He scanned the room. The patrons around the bar were three deep, all male. Based upon his experience, patrons of adult nightclubs fell into three categories. Young single guys were usually pretty vocal, while lonely old men were silent, their eyes fixed upon a particular dancer whom they believed they would “save” by night’s end. Then there were the married men clutching wads of bills, often with a twenty or fifty showing.
“Any sign of Dexter?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“One of my agents said there’s a door on the way to the VIP rooms with a sign telling people to stay out. We need to check that room out.”
Dexter knew what Lancaster looked like, which was a problem. That wasn’t true for Beth, who would be a stranger.
“Do you mind drawing him out?” he asked.
“What do you have in mind?” she said.
He explained his plan. Beth would be the beard, and he’d be her backup. It had a degree of risk, yet she immediately agreed.
They slid out of the booth. Beth unclasped her purse in case she needed to draw her weapon. The club’s DJ was having issues with his equipment, and the music suddenly died. Up on stage, the dancers jerked like puppets having their strings pulled in the wrong direction. The boorish patrons grew uneasy without the wall of noise.
A narrow hallway led to the VIP rooms. He lifted his drink so it was partially hiding his face, just in case there was a surveillance camera in the ceiling. They stopped at the door with the warning sign. Daniels stood in front of him and knocked.
“Anybody home?” she said loudly, slurring her words.
He’d suggested that she pretend to be drunk to help sell the play. The door swung in, and a bald guy with circular piercings in both ears glared at her.
“Can’t you read?” he said. “This room is off-limits.”
“I left my cell phone in the ladies’ room. Was it turned in?” she asked.
“No.”
She pointed past him into the room. “That cell phone on the table looks like mine.”
Confused, the bald guy spun around. She seized the opportunity and stuck her head into the room to have a look around. She pulled back as the bald guy turned.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “That’s a pack of butts.”
“Sorry. Guess I’ve had too much to drink.”
The bald guy pointed at Lancaster. “Make him take you home, he got you drunk,” he said, and slammed the door in their faces.
They went outside to talk. A pair of souped-up cars on US 19 blew past the club at warp speed. Daniels waited until they were gone before speaking.
“I think Dexter’s blown out of here,” she said. “There was a folded-up cot leaning against a wall, and a hot plate sitting in a cardboard box. One of his biker buddies must have tipped him off, so he split.”
“If he ran, one of the girls probably knows where he went,” he said.
“You mean one of the dancers.”
“That’s right. They usually know the score. I’ll get one of them to take me to a VIP room, slip her some money, and see what I can find out.”
“You think you can get a girl to open up?”
“It shouldn’t be too hard. Did you see the girls up on the stage? None of them looked very happy. A couple of hundred bucks should do the trick.”
“I can put it into my expenses, and get you paid back.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m flush these days.”
“I’ll be next door at the sandwich shop.”
He went back inside the club. The DJ had gotten his equipment working, and a hip-hop number called “I Luv Dem Strippers” by 2 Chainz and Nicki Minaj rocked the house. A seat at the bar opened up, and he grabbed it and ordered a beer. From his wallet he removed five hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them on the bar.
Then, he waited.
The money was the bait. The bartenders would see it, and one of them would communicate to the dancers that they had a “live” one. The dancers worked in rotation, and the next girl up would come down off the stage, and get up close to him. She’d start flirting, and convince him to follow her to a VIP room, where she’d offer to exchange sexual favors for some, if not all, of his money. If he wasn’t careful, she’d slip a pill into his beer, and he’d be running to the toilet before she fulfilled her end of the bargain.
It took only a minute until he was proven right. A dancer wearing a pink G-string walked down a short flight of steps next to the bar, and soon was standing next to him.
“My name’s Chanty,” she said. “Buy me a drink?”
He sized Chanty up. Everything about her was fake: fake tits, fake hair, fake smile. Her pupils were dilated, and she was flying high — probably on Ecstasy, or maybe cocaine. In his experience, people who were high did nothing but lie.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Let me guess. You’re the bashful type. I can fix that.”
He ignored her and drank his beer. Another dancer on stage caught his eye. She was young, and had a hint of innocence. Inked across her tummy was an Outlaws skull and crossbones tattoo. The tattoo was fresh, the dead skin still flaking.
“You know her?” he asked, pointing.
“Maybe,” Chanty said.
He took a hundred off the bar, tore it in half, and gave her one of the pieces.
“I want to meet her. Make it happen, and I’ll give you the other half.”
Chanty made a face. “Why’d you do that? Bill’s no good torn in half.”
“Sure it is. Just scotch-tape it back together, and take it to the bank.”
“Bullshit. They won’t take it.”
He asked one of the bartenders to settle the argument.
“I get bills taped together every day,” the bartender said. “They’re good.”
Clutching the torn half in her hand, Chanty returned to the stage, and whispered in the young dancer’s ear. The dancer smiled mischievously, and together they came down off the stage and made a beeline to where he sat. He handed Chanty the other half.
“Thanks,” he said.
The young dancer smiled at him. Up close, the years fell off her face, and he didn’t think she was more than seventeen. That meant she was dancing illegally, and could get in a world of trouble if caught.